“Oh, sorry. I’m dripping on the floor. I walked over from the castle. From the hotel. I’m staying at Ashford Castle.”
“Lucky you, it’s a grand place.”
“It’s like a dream, at least what I’ve seen of it. I just got here. I mean, a couple hours ago, and I wanted to come to see you right away. I came to meet you.”
“Why?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I—”
“You’re sorry for a lot it seems, in such a short time.”
“Ha.” Iona twisted the towel in her hands. “Yeah, it sounds like it. I’m Iona. Iona Sheehan. We’re cousins. I mean, my grandmother Mary Kate O’Connor is cousins with your grandmother Ailish, um . . . Ailish Flannery. So that makes us . . . I get confused if it’s fourth or third or whatever.”
“A cousin’s a cousin for all that. Well then, take off those muddy boots, and we’ll have some tea.”
“Thanks. I know I should’ve written or called or something. But I was afraid you’d tell me not to come.”
“Were you?” Branna murmured as she set the kettle on.
“It’s just once I’d decided to come, I needed to push through with it.” She left her muddy boots by the door, hung her coat on the peg. “I always wanted to visit Ireland—that roots thing—but it was always eventually. Then . . . well, it was now. Right now.”
“Go have a seat at the table back there, by the fire. It’s a cold wind today.”
“God, tell me! I swear it got colder the deeper I went into the woods, then . . . Oh Jesus, it’s the bear!”
She stopped as the massive dog lifted his head from his place at the little hearth, and gave her the same steady stare he had in the woods. “I mean the dog. I thought he was a bear for a minute when he came bursting through the woods. But he’s a really big dog. He’s your dog.”
“He’s mine, yes, and I’m his. He’s Kathel, and he won’t harm you. Have you a fear of dogs, cousin?”
“No. But he’s huge. What is he?”
“Breeding, you mean. His father is an Irish wolfhound, and his mother a mix of Irish Dane and Scottish deerhound.”
“He looks fierce and dignified at the same time. Can I pet him?”
“That would be up to you and him,” Branna said as she brought tea and sugar biscuits to the table. She said nothing more as Iona crouched, held out the back of her hand for the dog to sniff, then stroked it gently over his head.
“Hello, Kathel. I didn’t have time to introduce myself before. You scared the crap out of me.”
She rose, smiled at Branna. “I’m so happy to meet you, to be here. Everything’s been so crazy, and it’s all running around in my head. I can hardly believe I’m standing here.”
“Sit then, and have your tea.”
“I barely knew about you,” Iona began as she sat, warmed her chilled hands on the cup. “I mean, Nan had told me about the cousins. You and your brother.”
“Connor.”
“Yes, Connor, and the others who live in Galway or Clare. She wanted to bring me over years ago, but it didn’t work out. My parents—well, mostly my mother—didn’t really want it, and she and my father split up, and then, well, you’re just bouncing around between them. Then they both remarried, and that was weird because my mother insisted on an annulment. They say how that doesn’t really make you a bastard, but it sure feels like it.”
Branna barely lifted her eyebrows. “I imagine it does, yes.”
“Then there was school and work, and I was involved with someone for a while. One day I looked at him and thought, Why? I mean, we didn’t have anything for each other but habit and convenience, and people need more, don’t they?”
“I’d say they do.”
“I want more, sometime anyway. Mostly, I never felt like I fit. Where I was, something always felt a little skewed, not quite right. Then I started having the dreams—or I started remembering them, and I went to visit Nan. Everything she told me should’ve sounded crazy. It shouldn’t have made sense, but it did. It made everything make sense.
“I’m babbling. I’m so nervous.” She picked up a cookie, stuffed it in her mouth. “These are good. I’m—”
“Don’t be saying you’re sorry again. It’s coming on pitiful. Tell me about the dreams.”
“He wants to kill me.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. Or I didn’t. Nan says his name is—was—is Cabhan, and he’s a sorcerer. Evil. Centuries ago our ancestor, the first dark witch, destroyed him. Except some part of him survived it. He still wants to kill me. Us. I know that sounds insane.”
Placidly, Branna sipped her tea. “Do I look shocked by all this?”
“No. You look really calm. I wish I could be really calm. And you’re beautiful. I always wanted to be beautiful, too. And taller. You’re taller. Babbling. Can’t stop it.”
Rising, Branna opened a cupboard, took out a bottle of whiskey. “It’s a good day for a little whiskey in your tea. So you heard this story about Cabhan and Sorcha, the first dark witch, and decided to come to Ireland to meet me.”
“Basically. I quit my job, I sold my stuff.”
“You . . .” For the first time Branna looked genuinely surprised. “You sold your things?”
“Including twenty-eight pairs of designer shoes—bought at discount, but still. That stung some, but I wanted the break clean. And I needed the money to come here. To stay here. I have a work visa. I’ll get a job, find a place to live.”
She picked up another cookie, hoping it would stop the flood of words, but they just kept pouring out. “I know it’s crazy spending so much to stay at Ashford, but I just wanted it. I’ve got nothing back there but Nan, not really. And she’ll come if I ask her. I feel like I might fit here. Like things might balance here. I’m tired of not knowing why I don’t belong.”
“What was your work?”
“I was a riding instructor. Trail guide, stable hand. I’d hoped to be a jockey once, but I love them too much, and didn’t have the passion for racing and training.”
Watching her, Branna only nodded. “It’s horses, of course.”
“Yeah, I’m good with them.”
“I’ve no doubt of that. I know one of the owners of the stables here, the hotel uses them for guests. They do trail rides, and riding lessons and the like. I think Boyle might find a place for you.”
“You’re kidding? I never figured to get stable work right off. I figured waitress, shop clerk. It would be fabulous if I could work there.”
Some would say too good to be true, but Iona had never believed that. Good should be true.
“Look, I’ll muck out stalls, groom. Whatever he needs or wants.”
“I’ll have a word with him.”
“I can’t thank you enough,” Iona said, reaching for Branna’s hand. As they touched, gripped, heat and light flashed.
Though Iona’s hand trembled, she didn’t pull away, didn’t look away.
“What does it mean?”
“It means it may be time at last. Did cousin Mary Kate give you a gift?”
“Yes. When I went to see her, when she told me.” With her free hand, Iona reached for the chain under her sweater, took out the copper amulet with the sign of the horse.
“It was made by Sorcha for her youngest child, her daughter—”
“Teagan,” Iona supplied. “To shield her from Cabhan. For Brannaugh it was the hound—I should have realized that when I saw the dog. And for Eamon, the hawk. She told me the stories as long as I can remember, but I thought they were stories. My mother insisted they were. And she didn’t like Nan telling them to me. So I stopped telling her—my mother—about them. My mother prefers to just sort of glide along.”
“That’s why it is the amulet wasn’t passed to her, but to you. She wasn’t the one. You are. Cousin Mary Kate would come, but we knew she wasn’t the one, but like a guardian for the amulet, for the legacy. It was passed to her by others who guarded and waited. Now it comes to you.”
And you, Branna thought, have come to me.
“Did she tell you what you are?” Branna asked.
“She said . . .” Iona let out a long breath. “She said I’m the Dark Witch. But you—”
“There are three. Three is good magick. So now we’re three. You and I, and Connor. But each must accept the whole, and themselves, and the legacy. Do you?”
Hoping for calm, Iona took a gulp of whiskey-laced tea. “I’m working on it.”
“What can you do? She wouldn’t have passed this to you unless she was sure. Show me what you can do.”
“What?” Iona wiped suddenly damp palms on her jeans. “Like an audition?”
“I’ve practiced all my life; you haven’t. But you are the blood.” Branna tilted her head, her beautiful face skeptical. “Have you no skills as yet?”
“I’ve got some skills. It’s just I’ve never . . . except with Nan.” Annoyed, uneasy, Iona drew the candle on the table closer. “Now I’m nervous,” she muttered. “I feel like I’m trying out for the school play. I bombed that one.”
“Clear your mind. Let it come.”
She breathed again, slow and steady, put her focus, her energy on the candlewick. Felt the warmth rise in her, and light seep through. And she blew gently.
The flame flickered, swayed, then burned true.
“It’s so cool,” Iona whispered. “I’ll never get used to it. I’m just . . . magick.”
“It’s power. It must be trained, disciplined, and respected. And honored.”
“You sound like Nan. She showed me when I was little, and I believed. Then I thought they were just magick tricks, because my parents said they were. And I think—I know—my mother told her to stop or she wouldn’t let her see me.”
“Your mother’s mind is closed. She’s like a lot of others. You shouldn’t be angry with her.”
“She kept me from this. From what I am.”
“Now you know. Can you do more?”
“A few things. I can levitate things—not big things, and it’s fifty-fifty. Horses. I understand what they’re feeling. I always have. I tried a glamour, but that was a terrible bust. My eyes went purple—even the whites, and my teeth glowed like neon. I had to call in sick for two days before it wore off.”
Amused, Branna added more tea and whiskey to the cups.
“What can you do?” Iona demanded. “I showed mine. You show yours.”
“Fair enough then.” Branna flicked out a hand, and held a ball of white fire in her palm.
“Holy shit. That’s . . .” Warily Iona reached out, brought her fingertips close enough to feel the heat. “I want to do that.”
“Then you’ll practice, and you’ll learn.”
“You’ll teach me?”
“I’ll guide you. It’s already in you, but needs the route, the signs, the . . . finesse. I’ll give you some books to read and study. Take your week at the castle, and think about what you want, Iona Sheehan. Think carefully, for once it begins, you can’t go back.”
“I don’t want to go back.”
“I don’t mean to America, or your life there. I mean from the path we’ll walk.” She flicked her hand again and, with it empty, picked up her tea. “Cabhan, what is left of him, may be worse than what was. And what is left wants what you have, what we have. And he wants our blood. Your power and your life, you’ll risk both, so think carefully, for it’s not a game we’d be playing.”
“Nan said it had to be a choice, my choice. She told me he—Cabhan—would want what I have, what I am, and do whatever he could to get it. She cried when I said I was going to come, but she was proud, too. As soon as I got here, I knew it was the right choice. I don’t want to ignore what I am. I just want to understand it.”
“Staying is still a choice. And if you decide to stay, you’ll stay here, with me and Connor.”
“Here?”
“It’s best we stay together. There’s room enough.”
Nothing had prepared her for this. Nothing in her life measured as amazing a gift. “You’d let me live here, with you?”
“We’re cousins, after all. Take your week. Connor and I have committed, have taken an oath if the third came, we’d accept. But you haven’t had a lifetime, so think it through, and be sure. The decision has to be yours.”
Whatever it was, Branna thought, would change all.
4
THE RAIN SOAKED HER AGAIN ON HER TREK BACK, but it didn’t dampen her mood. After warming her bones in the shower, Iona dug out flannel pants, a thermal T-shirt, then, dumping her suitcase on the floor—she’d unpack properly later—she crawled into bed.
And slept like the dead for four solid hours.
She woke in the dark, completely disoriented and starving.
Though her thoroughly disorganized possessions taunted her, she rooted through for jeans, a sweater, warm socks, boots. Armed with her guidebook and one of the books Branna had lent her, she took herself off to the hotel’s cottage restaurant for the food, the company.
A fire snapped in the hearth while she dug into a bowl of roasted vegetable soup and pored over her books. She liked the comfort of the mix of voices around her, Irish, American, German—and, she thought, possibly Swedish. She dined on fish and chips, and since it was her first night, treated herself to a glass of champagne.
The waitress had a smile as brilliant as her bright red hair, and gifted Iona with it as she refilled the water glass. “Are you enjoying your meal then?”
“It’s wonderful.” Drawing her shoulders up and in, in a self-hug, Iona beamed a smile back. “Everything’s just wonderful.”
“Would it be your first time at Ashford?”
“Yes. It’s amazing. It still feels like a dream.”
“Well, they say we should have better weather tomorrow if you’re after rambling about.”
“I’d like to.” Should she rent a car? Iona wondered. Try her luck on the roads? Maybe just a walk to the village, for now. “Actually, I took a walk through the grounds, the woods this afternoon.”
“In all that drench?”
“I couldn’t resist. I wanted to see my cousin. She lives nearby.”
“Is that the truth? Sure it’s nice to have family while you’re visiting. Who is she, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“They, really, though I only met Branna today. Branna O’Dwyer.”
The girl’s smile didn’t dim, but her eyes showed new focus. “A cousin to the O’Dwyers, are you now?”
“Yes. Do you know them?”
“Everyone knows Branna and Connor O’Dwyer. He’s a falconer. The hotel will book hawk walks through the falconry school, and that Connor manages. It’s a very popular activity with the guests here. And Branna . . . she has a shop in Cong. She makes soaps and lotions and tonics and the like. The Dark Witch, it’s called, after a local legend.”
“I saw her workshop today. I’ll have to check out the shop and the falconry school.”
“Both are pleasant walks right from the hotel. Well then, enjoy your meal.”
The waitress left her to it, but Iona noticed she stopped by another server for a quick word. And both of them glanced back to Iona’s table.
So, she thought, the O’Dwyers were local interests. Hardly surprising. But it was weird sitting there eating her fish and chips knowing she’d become an object of speculation.
Did they all know Branna wasn’t merely the owner of the Dark Witch, but was one?
And so am I, Iona thought. Now I have to learn just what that means. Determined to do just that, she opened another book, and read her way through the rest of the meal.
The rain eased, but the night wind blew fierce, urging her to hurry back to the main hotel rather than strolling along the river Cong as she’d hoped.
She got “good evenings” and “welcome backs” from the staff as she stepped in, crossed through the lobby. Curious, she took brochures on the falconry school and the stables, then—what the hell, she was sort of on vacation—asked for tea to be sent to her room.
Once inside, she made herself set the brochures and books aside to deal, finally, with the unpacking.
After the brutal purge of her wardrobe, the selling of whatever she’d put aside, she still had more than enough. And she’d brought all she thought she’d need for her new life.
By the time she’d filled the wardrobe, the drawers, repacked items she decided could wait, the tea arrived, along with a plate of pretty cookies. Satisfied she’d done her chores, she changed back into her sleep pants, piled up the pillows and, sitting in bed, composed the email on her notebook to let her grandmother know she’d arrived safe, had met with Branna.
Ireland’s all you said and more, even just the little I’ve seen. So is Branna. It’s so generous of her to let me stay with her. The castle’s just awesome, and I’m going to enjoy every minute I’m here, but I’m already looking forward to moving in with Branna—and Connor. I hope I meet him soon. If I get the job at the stables, it’ll just be perfect. So think good thoughts.
Nan, I’m sitting in this wonderful bed in a castle in Ireland, drinking tea and thinking of all that’s yet to come. I know you said it could be a hard road, hard choices, and Branna sure as hell made that clear. But I’m so excited, I’m so happy.
I think, maybe, I’ve finally found where I fit.
Tomorrow I’ll check out the stables, the falconry school, the village—and Branna’s shop. I’ll let you know how it all goes. I love you!
Iona
She sent dutiful emails to her mother, her father. A few cheerful ones to friends and coworkers. And reminded herself to take some pictures to send next time.
She set the notebook aside to charge, retrieved the books, the brochures. This time she got into the bed, wiggled her shoulders back against the pillows.
Blissfully happy, she scanned the brochures, studied the photos. The school sounded absolutely fascinating. And the stables perfect. One of her mother’s favorite warnings was: Don’t get your hopes up.
But Iona’s were, high, high up.
She slipped the stable brochure under her pillow. She’d sleep on it for luck. Then she opened Branna’s book again.
Within twenty minutes, with the lights on, the tea tray still on the bed beside her, she’d dropped back into sleep.
And this time dreamed of hawks and horses, of the black hound. Of the deep green woods where a stone cabin nestled with fog crawling at its feet.
After dismounting a horse as gray as the fog, she walked through the mists, the hood of her cloak drawn up to cover her hair. She carried roses, for love, to the stone polished smooth and carved deep by magick and grief. There she laid the roses, white as the innocence she’d lost.
“I am home, Mother. We are home.” Dabbing the tears on her cheeks with her fingers, she traced the name.
SORCHA
The Dark Witch
And the words bled against the stone.
I am waiting for you.
Not her mother’s voice, but his. With all that had been done, all that had been sacrificed, he survived.